


another us

by intextrovert



Category: Fucking Åmål | Show Me Love (1998)
Genre: F/F, I kept wondering what their future might be like, so I wrote it, yay me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intextrovert/pseuds/intextrovert
Summary: Stockholm Pride 2015A random encounter, a ditched house party, a long-awaited thunderstorm.Many things are completely different when you're 15 compared to when you're 32. Some things have not changed at all.(This is an english translation of the swedish version "ett annat vi".)
Relationships: Agnes Ahlberg/Elin Olsson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	another us

**[Saturday, August 1:st, 2015]**

"Using public transport in this city in summer is like a case-study of various climate zones."

You shoot off your observation in the group chat without developing your thoughts any further. You know that Lovisa and Anton will get what you mean.

First you've got the commuter train – fairly humane despite the scorching August sun. Thanks to the lords of air conditioning for that.  
Then the cool, underground air at Södra Station, abruptly changing into tropical rainforest as you pass through the platform doors and head left up the escalator towards the street level.  
Out on the street, a tad bit cooler than inside the train station but the air is still heavy. Humid and dusty at the same time, but at least without the abstract scent of tunnel.  
Outdoors it smells like a thunderstorm might be brewing. Hopefully it will hold off until the evening at least.

You follow Swedenborgsgatan north to Mariatorget, a picture perfect hipster dream heading this direction. Tall trees are shading the tables of the cafés and bars that seem to inhabit every other ground floor of the old houses lining the street.

There are large crowds gathering along Hornsgatan already – you have to weave your way past stationary islands of people, signposts and the odd, very lost middle aged man in expensive cycling gear, to get to the church on top of the hill. The lawn surrounding the church is overlooking the street, and there are people, camping chairs, boxes of wine and speakers blaring not-exactly-great music everywhere. A quick look around and an arm raised in the air helps you find your way, and soon you drop your backpack on the grass and plops down on the blanket that Lovisa and Anton has laid out. Your little Pride-picnic has somehow turned into an actual tradition. Some years there's only been the three of you, sometimes other people join in, but you always meet somewhere in the early part of the parade route. It ended up being like that, a compromise between the people who wants to be able to spontaneously join (Anton) and those who rather just watch (you).

Lovisa hands you a beer, the bottle is dripping with cold water, and thankfully, its content is also a pleasant temperature. You kick off your shoes and bury your toes in the grass. Down, closest to the dirt it's still cool. You lie down, looking at the blue sky, the leaves of the tree slowly rustling in the edge of your point of view. Anton is halfway through what's best described as a monologue about his conquests yesterday night, and you're feeling kind of satisfied to have left last night's party at a decent hour. It's too hot outside to be hungover today. Hangovers in general became an all-day project after you turned 25 – something very special has to occur for you to feel like hangovers are worth it at all nowadays.

* * *

It doesn't matter that Pride parades are decidedly not your scene – that you just want to live your life and fall in love with whoever you might fall in love with – you always choke up and get a little teary eyed when the first people come, the ones with the _"Marching for those who can't"_ -banners. Their silent manifestation moves you.

You suspect that there is something seriously wrong with people who aren't at all touched.

And there, in the silent rows right before all the partying, all the loud music, the glitter and the commercialism – there she is. Walking slowly, and for a second you think you're seeing a ghost. The same dark-blonde hair, the same fiery gaze as on that night, forever ago when the two of you were standing shivering in the cold on a bridge in the middle of nowhere. Her platform sneakers are swapped out for well-worn Vans, her short black skirt is now a pair of cutoff jeans, but it is her. Undoubtedly. Her holding a banner and walking silent through a crowded summery Stockholm.  
Her gaze is rigid, straight ahead, face expressionless and focused.

And maybe it's because of that, because you know that she wouldn't think of looking anywhere but straight ahead, that you dare to keep looking long enough to erase any and all doubts. It's not a mirage, or someone just looking a lot alike. It is her.

All of a sudden you're flooded by memories – long afternoons locked up in your room, or hers. Nail polish and Date perfumes, her laughter when you tried to walk in her wobbly platform shoes. An endless amount of sandwiches in her mum's tiny kitchen. Winding conversations about everything and nothing and a future that felt so, so far away. Lip gloss, cheap beer, mix CD's and bike rides on dusty gravel roads leading absolutely nowhere. Her, on the rack with her arms around your waist, the curses everytime you steered over a pothole or through a puddle of mud. You weren't heading places yet, you simply existed, both of you. Together. But htat was then, before the small town started to suffocate you, kept her, and you went your separate ways.

It's been years since you last saw her. And although there has been weak moments when you've wanted to, you've actually never looked her up on Facebook or Instagram. You'd let the memories stay memories. So you had no idea she would be here. And you don't know if she lives here now, or if she's just visiting. You know nothing about her anymore, and it feels so strange, because once upon a time you knew almost everything there was to know.

Lovisa looks at you, concerned, and you realise that you've stopped applauding. Making a ruckus without breaks for the hours on end that will pass until all of the parade has walked by is impossible, but you always try to make a point of applauding the more important groups, the ones made up of something more than party and sequins.

"Where did you go?" Lovisa asks.

"Nowhere special, I was just thinking," you say with a shrug.

You getting lost in your own thoughts is nothing unusual. Lovisa doesn't push.

* * *

You saw her by coincidence in the parade, but when you find her again, in the Pride Park, it is not, even though you don't want to admit to yourself that you have been looking for her. She's sitting at a picnic table with a group of people, and you excuse yourself to Anton and Lovisa, you're just going to say hi to an old friend.

Thirteen steps.

Thirteen steps gives you enough time to thing an ungodly amount.

Thirteen steps makes you question your entire existence.

What if she doesn't recognise you?

She recognises you.

And smiles.

Help.

It shouldn't be this easy, more than a third of your life has passed since you broke up, back then you still hadn't stopped thinking of yourself as a teenager, now you're setting money aside for your pension, you make a point of eating healthy (most of the time), and you've been forced to understand how a mortgage works. Who are you even anymore? And who is she today?

Apparently she's someone who jumps off the bench she's sitting on the second she sees you, and gives you a big hug squealing "Agnes?! Oh my god, it's been so long!"

Soon, you know more, like that she nowadays is a person who lives in Stockholm (Bredäng, it's nice, not too far from the shores), and works with administration. Her line of work is a bit abstract, and you forget the details of it the second she's told you. Not because you're disinterested, but because it's oddly overwhelming, walking headfirst into the core character of your adolescence, half a life later.

Lovisa and Anton returns, and without you really understanding how it happens, people squeeze together around the picknick table, and the three of you are absorbed into Elin's group of friends. Upon a closer look, Anton turns out to be a friend of a friend of one of Elin's friends, because of course he is, but despite the fuzzy connections Stockholm has still somehow been large enough that you and Elin has spent the last three years living on the same side of the same city without ever bumping into each other.

And when you finally do, it's at Pride, of all places.

Your inner fifteen year-old is not sure how she feels about that.

* * *

One of the best things about your friends is that they sometimes, miraculously, knows when to shut up.

Because they know. It takes a total of two seconds after Elin being introduced to Lovisa and Anton before they both have done the maths, and right now you're very thankful that they're keeping what they know to themselves instead of asking questions that would tell everyone and their grandmother that you and Elin used to be a couple. It's possible that Elin's part of the group also knows, and it's not the knowing as such that bothers you. You just don't have the energy to deal with other peoples' inevitable opinions on how crazy it is that you two has bumped into each other after so long, and how it must be fate _*wink wink*_ , or lead to a conversation about relationships – a topic you have zero interest of discussing at the moment.

Elin however, doesn't metion anything that could allude to her being in a relationship – you're being that attentive – and as for yourself, you're so hopelessly single that even your parents have given up on asking about your love life a long time ago.

The conversation is pulled in all sorts of directions – gossip, politics, the goddamned housing market. If you'd known how much time you would spend discussing the housing market before you moved here, you would have panicked for sure.

"..but can't we just accept their money and just.. deal with it?" one of Elin's friends (Linus? Lukas?) ask.

"In a way, yes, but you can't say that I'm wrong – a lot of people who Pride were originally for no longer feels at home here because it's been commercialized to death. And honestly, what difference does it make that the cable networks hand out rainbow balloons? It makes a difference for whom, exactly?

Elin pulls at a string of one of those very balloons, tied to a backpack belonging to one of her friends, before she continues.

"- of course it's a good thing that the parade can exist unbothered, and that so many people comes out to watch, but don't you feel the _"animal at the zoo"_ -vibe from time to time?"

Elin is getting agitated, all the signs are there, and even if it's been weakened over the years and by the distance from her hometown, you can't help but smile at her accent. How the vowels constantly wants to take up more space than they're given. Listening to her speak feels like coming home, even though it's been years since you considered the little factory town to be your home. And you agree with her – Pride is a strange phenomenon, and you always feel less at home here than you maybe should.

"Yeah, fine, but everything doesn't have to be super serious all the time, can't we just enjoy ourselves sometimes?" It's Linus/Lukas again – Elin rolls her eyes at him, but lets it go and chugs what's left of her beer.

"Refill time. Agnes, do you want one?"

You nod, and untangle your legs from under the picnic table to follow her over to the nearest beer garden. The queue is awful, so keeping her company is really only polite.

"I agree. About Pride not really being for those it should be for anymore, I mean," you say once you're in line behind two tall, middle-aged men in pastel colored polo shirts.

She just looks at you, the hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth.

"But I'm glad that Pride does exist, even though it's not always done quite right," you add, because here, in the beer line at what usually is a football field, with Elin's eyes on you, it's one hundred percent true.

* * *

Two more rounds to the beer garden and three hours later you can feel a vague sense of festival fatigue spreading through your body. It's Stockholm, not Hultsfred, a football field and not a muddy meadow, but being day drunk in this heat is still starting to take its toll. Your quiet apartment and some chill music at a decent volume is starting to feel more appealing by the second.

Two of Elin's friends are trying to make a house party happen somewhere in the western suburbs, in case the looming storm clouds decide to let loose before it's late enough to head to the bars and clubs in the city center.

"Honestly, I think I'm gonna go." A messy house party is not your choice of scene tonight, or any other night either for that matter. Anton sighs and rolls his eyes at you.

"I'll go with you, I'm heading south too," Elin says and is instantly subjected to a chorus of "but Eeeeeelin, it's the last night of Pride, we have to party!"

"I'm just heading home to shower and get changed, grab something to eat. I'll head straight to Marco and Lukas' when I'm done, okay?"

You grab your backpack from the pile of belongings, give Lovisa and Anton hugs goodbye with a vague promise of meeting up later that none of you really believe, and say a collective goodbye to the rest of the gang. Elin hugs her way through the group, adds someone on Facebook to get an address for later. Grabs her tote bag and jean jacket in one hand and throws you a glance and a head tilt that sends you all the way back to small town house parties with stolen vodka and Fanta Exotic.

It's a gesture that says "come, let's go, I wanna hang out with only you." At least that's what that headtilt meant half a life ago. She doesn't take your hand now, like she did back then, but she turns around several times on the way to the park exit to make sure you're following.

* * *

The cool air is like a pleasant punch to the face once you're past the turnstiles and below ground. It feels like the massive rainbow painted in the roof of the subway station is staring at you, even though it doesn't have eyes. It feels like it knows.

"Whereabouts do you live?" Elin asks, just as the train – one of the rickety old ones, its end station Norsborg, rolls into the station.

"Årsta, so I can take the tram from Liljeholmen," you half-shout back at her to make yourself heard over the train's screeching brakes.

"Årsta is lovely."

"Yeah, I like it there, it's got soul. Mostly older houses, so far. And the woods and the bay around the corner."

You take a four-seater, sitting opposite each other, and everytime the train tosses from a turn your knees bump.

And everytime the train tosses and turns you briefly lose track of the conversation.

When the train pass the Central Station you're on the topic of food. The beers you had in the park are long gone, and the heat and hunger is draped over both of you like a tired blanket.

"You know what, I have a suggestion," Elin says. "Isn't there a pizzeria right next to your tram station?"

"Um, yeah?"

"So we could get some pizzas, then head to your place, and if we change our minds and want to meet up the others again I could just borrow a shirt and some makeup from you?"

She says all this with a smile, as if the world is still turning as usual.

Which you suppose it does, only that you just fell off and is now in some kind of solo orbit.

For a second, you hate her. For just barging into your life again, rummaging around in your metaphorical closet, making a complete mess. Even though you technically started the barging in by walking up to her earlier, she has taken back the lead, unbothered and spontaneous. Back when, you'd known it to be her defense mechanism – walk fast, speak loud and smile, and no one will know your inner self doubts. But you can't know whether Elin, 31 works the same way that Elin, the teenager did.

Somehow she just invited herself to your place, and you honestly don't have it in you to object.

* * *

It feels so strange to have her here. In your apartment. Because it's unexpected, and at the same time feels so inexplicably normal. As if it haven't been almost twelve years since you last saw each other properly. Because a quick, stiff "hello" when you bumped into each other outside of the grocery store in Åmål just before Christmas some seven years ago does not count.

You kick your shoes off in the hallway and walk over to put the pizza cartons on the small table, praying to the powers that be that you remember correctly and that there is a bottle of wine in the fridge. And it is there, thank heavens, an unopened saviour next to the butter and a small box of cherry tomatoes.

For a second you hate yourself for being such a stereotypical swede – gotta have a glass of wine to be able to handle a social situation. But then you reconsider – you're really just being polite. Really.

"Fancy a glass?" you ask, turning towards her with the wine bottle in hand. She's leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and the room, face lighting up in a smile.

So you put the bottle on the counter and try to think of anything other than how weak your arms feel all of a sudden, or the slight tremor in your hands as you're opening the kitchen cupboard to take out two wine glasses.

You take out cutlery too, but put them back right away when she gives you a look. Still no eating pizza with a fork and knife then.

Elin is padding around your tiny flat, opens the balcony door to peek out. At the house next door, the cycling track, the granite rocks poking through the lawn. The damn birch tree that makes every spring a dusty pollen inferno.

"It's really cosy here. It feels _lived in_ somehow."

"Well, I've lived here for four years soon," you answer.

"Oh, yeah, I meant the whole area. Not just the apartment. Which is great too," she tacks on, to make sure there are no misunderstandings.

The sky goes light over to the southwest. Thunder is closing in. The first rumble is accompanied by a gust of wind that smells like rain.

"You think the other will make it to Lukas' and Marco's place before the weather goes amok?"

"No idea, but a little rain won't kill them," Elin says with a shrug. "It will wash some of the glitter off if they're lucky."

You hand her one of the wine glasses and pull one of the chairs out for her. Maybe that's being a bit over the top, but who cares. Elin opens her pizza carton with a deep, theatrical "mmmmmm", and almost chokes on the first cheesy slice, she's eating so fast.

”Good to see your table manners hasn't changed," you quip.

"Mmff."

"Exactly."

Your stomach rumbles loudly and you remember how hungry you are.

"No one in the world cares about table manners while eating pizza," Elin says.

"Mmmhäeh."

"Exactly."

You just snort at her, and go back to eating in silence for a little while, until Elin, leaning back in her chair, wine glass in hand and head tilted says "So, unchanged opinions on that pizza could be eaten with a fork and knife aside, who are you nowadays, Agnes? I'm curious"

There's a loud crack outside, a lot closer this time, and as the raindrops start falling the two of you start filling each other in on all the years that have passed. It's slow at first – huge droplets exploding on hot tarmac, followed by torrential rain that softens the longer it goes on.

* * *

"I don't want to go home."

She's standing with one foot in an untied canvas shoe and looks you straight in the eye. You're unsure what to say back. You don't want her to leave either, but despite all the hints she's given you, despite the fact that she said it outright three seconds ago it feels so difficult, so unreasonably huge to ask for.

"Agnes."

You look down at the doormat for a second, and when you lift your gaze again she moves a little closer. So you walk backwards, slowly, out of the hallway and into the room.

She follows, step by step, her eyes glued on you the whole time.

It's so stupid, so careless, you've already been through heartbreak with her once, and now you're mere inches from risking it all again. You've learned fuck all over the past seventeen years.

Except that that's not true, you have learned a lot, and you simply assume that the same goes for her. Bits and pieces of the people you were back then still remain, but overall it's a completely new puzzle.

Without meaning to you've walked backwards across your living room, all the way to the alcove with the bed, and when your knees hit the edge you stumble, and find yourself sitting down.

Outside, the sky is a deep, dark blue. The thunderstorm has passed, the balcony door still open a little to let in the cool air and the smell of rain, and you can hear the whooshing sound of cars on the turnpike a few blocks away. Could hear. The blood rushing through your body is drowning out the traffic noise now.

Elin reaches out to take your hand, she's so close she's almost standing on your toes, and you're not breaking eye contact even for a second. Slowly, gently she moves until she's straddling you. A little cautious, as to if give you space, a last chance to escape or protest. As if. Never.

Instead, you put your hand around her neck, and just lose control, give up, let go. Your lips find hers, and you fall backwards and to the side. Lying on the bed, pulling her with you into the abyss. You want to laugh, cry, gasp for air when you feel how your bodies turn soft, pliant, melting into each other, and maybe you do one or several of those things, you're unsure.

All you know is that you're losing yourself in the best way possible – you're lost in how she's touching you, her scent, her soft, soft lips leaving a burning trail along the skin of your throat, her hands holding you, pulling you close, closer. The lack of her that you up until now haven't even realised you've carried with you is catching fire, gone up in flames because of a coincidence. She's here now. You don't have to miss her anymore.

Your perception of time has vanished, you might be kissing for a few minutes, or maybe there are hours passing by. All that matters is that her legs are tangled with yours, her hot breath against your cheek, her hand finding its way up your spine under your t-shirt. Her most quiet voice mumbling inbetween kisses that never wants to end.

That you fall asleep together, and that you despite the fireworks in your bloodstream, feels entirely calm and safe.

* * *

**[Sunday, August 2:nd, 2015]**

When you wake up next morning you are alone in bed, but before your insides have got the time to turn to stone you hear a small ruckus from the kitchen.

She pokes her head through the doorway, looking oddly flustered, but you don't think about that. All your thoughts are rerouted to the fact that shes walking around wearing only a t-shirt and panties.

So domestic, as if she's woken up here a hundred times already.

Her bare legs, so much skin.

Butterflies, so many butterflies.

The balcony door is still half open and it smells like summer.

"Mornin'," you mumble, sitting up and dragging your fingers through your tangled hair. You always, always pull it into a bun before you go to bed, but you were a bit distracted yesterday, and now you probably look like a bird's nest that just woke up. Perfect.

"Hi." She smiles, disappears for a second – you hear her put something on the kitchen counter before she reappears again and practically bounces over to you.

"I made breakfast," she smiles, bends down to give you a quick kiss before adding "but I didn't wanna touch that space ship of a coffee maker".

"That's okay." You can't think, your insides feels like they might burst into actual fireworks.

She takes your hand and pulls your half-reluctant, wholly useless body out of the bed. You realise that you fell asleep in your shorts yesterday, which feels a little strange but you don't have it in you to care.

"And it's way too hot out for having tea," she continues. You nod mutely, blushing when your stomach rumbles as you look at the things set out on the table.

"And I messed up a little when measuring," Elin sighs and looks at the kitchen counter.

There, in a neat row are six glasses of chocolate milk, and a carton of milk most likely emptied.

* * *

You don't even think about your phone until way after lunchtime, and when you open it you have three missed calls from Lovisa, and 46 unread messages in your group chat.

You can't be bothered reading them, you just type out a quick "everything's good, talk to you guys later" so that Lovisa and Anton won't worry.

"All good?" Elin asks against your right shoulder blade.

You put the phone back on the shelf and rollover so you're facing her.

"Mm, all good."


End file.
